


Young One

by strange_seas



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, royal!AU, servant!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 03:35:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17134244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strange_seas/pseuds/strange_seas
Summary: There is no one in the world Jongin is more devoted to than the prince who saved his life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LiveJournal on April 4, 2015. Brief mention of slave trade and dirty old men.

The slit of the lady's dress cuts all the way up to her left hipbone. The silk of it is red, lustrous, like the skin of a cherry. It clings to her small waist as though it were wet.  
  
Jongin eyes it from underneath his eyelashes. A gown of this kind seems inappropriate for a first meeting. Something blue, perhaps; mild and airy, like the one Nana had been wearing the day she'd met Chanyeol. But  _this_ red, red like the lip rouge of a second concubine, seems nothing short of suggestive.  
  
Delicately, the guest drapes one of her long, white limbs over the other. Her breasts heave over her strapless neckline, and the stones at her neck glisten in the light. A glossy fingernail traces the rim of her wine glass. That's when Jongin notices it's empty.  
  
He reaches for the decanter of rosé on the table next to him, just as he hears his murmured name.  
  
"Your Highness," Jongin replies instantly. He approaches the table for two with discretion, ingrained into him by years in service. His footsteps barely make a sound. "More wine?"  
  
"Just for the lady, please, Jongin." Intelligent almond eyes meet his, turning up ever-so-slightly at the corners. "I've had enough for the evening."  
  
And then, for a split second, Jongin sees the grin.  
  
_Ah,_  he thinks to himself, deciphering the hidden meaning. He's mastered all the little cues and quirks that give the prince's true motives away. This one means, simply,  _how dull this is._  
  
A smile twitches, round and minuscule, behind Jongin's lips. But he keeps it to himself, because he knows his place. In a moment, he's filled one crystal glass with the fragrant pink wine. Not a drop spilt.  
  
The lady cocks a painted eyebrow. "Come, Joonmyun," she exclaims, with a disbelieving sort of amusement. "It's not even midnight. Surely you aren't going to make me drink by myself?" Her eyes dance over the rim of her glass as she takes a sip of rosé.  
  
Jongin bites his tongue. He also thinks it inappropriate for a stranger to address the prince by his given name. But the lady—a  _princess,_ from Japan—acts as though they have known each other since infancy.  
  
The familiarity of royals.  
  
The prince laughs, attempts to cajole her. "By all means, no, Keiko. I'll keep you company if you plan to finish the wine." A chuckle puffs in his throat. "But I'd prefer a less alcoholic drink. Keep my wits about me."  
  
His eyes glimmer in the yellow light. Jongin could spot the mischief in them a mile away.  
  
"I was told you were a great lover of wine, prince," the lady says coyly. "My mother sent over this bottle especially for you."  
  
"And I hope you will convey my deepest thanks to Lady Watanabe," Joonmyun replies. "To explain, I was up at dawn today to oversee some work in the palace, and didn't know you would be coming to call." He smiles at her, flirting without real sincerity. "Otherwise, I would have planned to be less exhausted, and more at your disposal."  
  
Keiko reaches across the table. Her fingers graze the back of the prince's hand. "I am at your disposal." When she traces the veins that emboss his skin, Joonmyun's thumb tics. "Shall I entertain you?"  
  
Jongin turns away then. He retreats from the table, taking the decanter with him. He knows how the unwed royals entertain each other.  
  
"Unfortunately," he hears in his periphery, "I have another early start tomorrow—even earlier, in fact. And while I would love to spend more time in your presence, I think it would be wiser for me to retire tonight." The words are cloaked in another smile. "Forgive me."  
  
"Ah." The sound of rustling fabric signals the lady has pulled back. "Then I suppose it can't be helped." Her voice has flattened somewhat, although it has lost none of its seductive quality.  
  
"I will see you another time, Keiko," she is assured with winking charm. And then: "Jongin?"  
  
A step away from his position in the shadows, Jongin halts. The wine sloshes against the glass of the decanter between his hands.  
  
"Yes, Your Highness," he murmurs, spinning back around but keeping his eyes on the pale marble floor.  
  
"May I ask you to run a bath for me?" The tone is gentler now, more amiable. "I'll be taking one as soon as I've seen the princess out."  
  
"Certainly, Your Highness." Jongin bows. His hair falls into his eyes. "Right away." He places the decanter on its table and moves to step out of the dining room.  
  
It's not fast enough to miss Keiko's next words.  
  
"Beautiful specimen, your manservant," she directs to Joonmyun, taking little care to modulate her voice. She sounds bored—the way all shallow, frivolous royals without a pursuit are bored. "Can I buy him from you?"  
  
Jongin flinches, drawing in a sharp, silent breath. Blood charges his temples, hot with humiliation.  
  
"A trunk of pearls?" Keiko offers, light and breezy. "Two?"  
  
"He is not for sale," Joonmyun informs her. His voice is quiet, with an unmistakable undercurrent of warning. "He is a person, Keiko."  
  
Jongin can hear the nerves in the lady's ensuing laugh.  
  
"Oh—of course.  _Of course_  he is. Did I offend you, prince?"  
  
"Not at all," Joonmyun replies, letting her off. There is no point in a lecture that will fall on deaf ears.  
  
"I only meant to compliment you," Keiko gushes, quick to make reparations. "Your… _friend,_  you see, draws the eye like a gem. Such natural, untouched beauty. Don't you agree?"  
  
Now, all Jongin hears is the echo of his own breathing.  
  
"Yes." Joonmyun's voice seems closer and clearer, as though he has turned in Jongin's direction. "That I do."  
  
There isn't a mirror in sight. But Jongin can pinpoint the exact shade of red that floods the rest of his face—bright and garish, like the dye of an inappropriate dress.  
  
He picks up the pace, exiting the room.  
  
  
  
  
Water drips from the sponge in Jongin's hand and the tips of the prince's dark, soaked hair. The sound is reverent; a delicate echo in Joonmyun's private bathing area.  
  
"Is the water warm enough, Your Highness?"  
  
Jongin didn't want to be the first to speak, but he can see goosebumps pebbling over Joonmyun's skin.  
  
"Yes," the prince answers. His arms rest on the sides of the tub, lean and muscled. His mind seems to be elsewhere. Without preamble, he asks, "What did you think of the princess?"  
  
Jongin strokes the sponge over a smooth shoulder. "She was very glamorous, Your Highness."  
  
 "I'm accustomed to seeing silk of that color and diamonds of that size only at weddings. A little extravagant for supper at someone's home, wouldn't you agree?"  
  
Jongin chuckles, passing the sponge over the other shoulder. It amuses him, the way the prince offhandedly refers to his palace as though it were a small country villa.  
  
"And her looks?"  
  
The little bumps have reached the prince's forearms, where the cool air hits. Jongin holds the sponge over them, one at a time, squeezing warm water from it to comfort the skin. "Beautiful, Your Highness." He does the same to Joonmyun's back, so the soap runs down it in milky rivulets.  
  
The prince turns his head. Now Jongin can see cheekbone and chin, not just the flat of his neck. "Pay no attention to what Keiko said. I might have found you at that auction when you were barely a teenager, but you were born free, just like me and Sehun and our sister."  
  
Jongin dips his head. Of the three children in the royal family, Joonmyun has always been the most liberal. The sponge works its way between his shoulder blades this time, making a soothing, scraping sound.  
  
"You know that, don't you, Jongin?" The prince's voice is careful. "I only meant to take you from that godforsaken place. But…you can leave any time."  
  
Joonmyun is as tender as he is open-minded. Particularly with his inner circle—highborn  _and_ low.  
  
Jongin takes a moment to speak, collecting his thoughts. "You've said so, Your Highness. And I'm eternally grateful for your kindness." His voice doesn't shake. "But I would never leave you."  
  
The sponge stops working—or rather,  _is_ stopped. Joonmyun has reached behind him to loosely, lightly, hold Jongin's wrist.  
  
"Why not?" The words are curious.  
  
"Because I am loyal to you," Jongin says simply.  
  
That meets with a noncommittal hum. "And your loyalty is what keeps you here."  
  
It's more a statement, than a question.  
  
_No,_  Jongin disagrees, digging his fingers into the porous matter of the sponge. But he responds with a, "Yes, Your Highness," anyway, so there is less to explain.  
  
The prince unclasps his wrist. His arm returns to its position on the ledge of the tub. He faces forward again, so all Jongin can see is a crop of dark hair and a damp neck with a mole at its base.  
  
"Thank you, Jongin." Joonmyun shifts in the tub. The muscles in his back bunch together, then smoothen out.  
  
"It is nothing, Your Highness," Jongin replies. He immerses the sponge in bathwater, draws it out, and discharges the fragrant liquid across Joonmyun's shoulders, which have begun to air-dry.  
  
The prince makes a sound of approval. He settles deeper into the water.  
  
Jongin watches him wordlessly.  _But really,_  he confesses, buffing the sponge against Joonmyun's neck, _really, my lord, it's because I love you._  


 

 

⤫

  
  
At twelve, Jongin loses both his parents in a raid. Chanyeol, his brother, is thirteen.  
  
On a day like any other, ruthless men slash and burn through their village, a knot of cottages in the emerald mountains. The women are taken for their tents; the men, killed on sight. The children are segregated into two groups—one for the army to keep, the other to be sold off as slaves.  
  
The leader of the insurgents looks Jongin and Chanyeol up and down, soaking in the faultless skin of their mother, the pretty eyes of their father. He deliberates executing them like the rest of the adult males. They both seem much older, too capable for their ages, even though they are barely out of childhood. Innocents, by the skin of their teeth.  
  
In the end, he lumps them in with the rest of the outgoing merchandise. "Gorgeous little brats," the leader says. Jongin will never forget his cold, cruel voice. "Strip them down when they stand for auction. Looks like these'll fetch a handsome price from old lechers."  
  
They take a long, difficult journey down the mountains. The children are confined, and given very little to eat. Once they reach the market where the auction will be held—a rambling place, reeking of entrails and spices—Jongin's ribs are starting to show beneath his skin.  
  
Somewhere in transit from the slavers' caravan to the auctioneer's platform, Chanyeol manages to steal a handful of berries. But when Jongin tries to wolf down his share, his brother stops him cold.  
  
" _No,_  Jongin, this is belladonna."  
  
Jongin's dirt-streaked hand falls away from his lips. "Poison?" he whispers, lips shaking from hunger. "Then  _why?_ "  
  
Chanyeol's next words are chilling. "So that if they separate us, which I think they will, and the people who buy us are bad masters, which they are likely to be, we will have a choice." He looks Jongin square in the eye. "Do you understand?"  
  
The younger curls a loose fist around the berries; a safe pocket, to keep them from dropping. "Yes, hyung."  
  
One by one, the children are plucked from their herd to be sold off to the highest bidder. The customers are an oily, seedy bunch: round-bellied merchants dripping in gold chains, tinted madams with rotting teeth underneath their red smiles. A wizened, flint-eyed man purchases six girls and boys in quick succession, saying, "I serve many masters."  
  
Jongin prays and prays that he gets passed over the next round. The gnarled old geezer disgusts him. If not, he will put every single berry into his mouth and swallow. A parting gift between brothers.  
  
But something strange—something  _miraculous_ —happens when it is his turn. The auctioneer rustles him forward by the nape of his neck, calling out his introductory price. As Jongin stands on the platform, naked, grimy, and trembling, a different sort of customer emerges from the throng.  
  
The handsome, clean-shaven face cuts through the sea of smarm like a lighthouse. Its features are elegant, with a sort of fierceness in the eyes that confirms the power in this young man's hands. Broad shoulders give him a noble bearing, and while he is not particularly tall, he  _is_ striking—like a prince. There is a slim gold circlet resting on his crown, so Jongin surmises that's exactly what he is.  
  
A prince.  
  
A gasp ripples through the crowd. Suddenly, every person in the auction—including the auctioneer—is sinking to their knees.  
  
"Your Highness," the auctioneer purrs. "It is an absolute  _honor_ —"  
  
"I am told you have children in your selection," the young man interrupts in a clipped tone. "I am sure you are aware this sort of sale is frowned upon."  
  
The auctioneer feigns blissful ignorance. There are only two slaves left in holding, after all—Jongin and Chanyeol—and they look every legal inch of eighteen.  
  
"Does this one not suit, Your Highness?" The auctioneer brushes his fingertips against Jongin's chin, showing him off. "I'd planned to keep him for my own home—my wife is partial to this kind of face, you see. But for you?" He bows solicitously, bending his back as low as it will go. "A royal discount, if you are interested."  
  
The prince's mouth stretches into a grimace. His eyes bore holes into the auctioneer's forehead. He might be a royal, but he can't be more than twenty—and it's clear the old man is playing up his lack of experience.  
  
"Do not condescend to me, hawker."  
  
The auctioneer bows lower still. "Not at all, Your Highness, not at all. I would never  _deign_ to."  
  
Frustration blooms anew in the prince's face. He shoots a glance in Jongin's direction. The sad state of him, it seems, is enough to merit a double-take. Suddenly, those sharp eyes soften with pity.  
  
Jongin squirms under his gaze. He'd been someone's beloved son just a fortnight ago—beautiful and brave and strong, just like this royal. But now…  
  
"How much for the boy?" the prince inquires curtly, unapologetically.  
  
The auctioneer's smirk is insufferable. "Given his superior features and physique, I can go no lower than fifty gold coins, my liege."  
  
"You will have a hundred," the prince replies, "if that will finish the bidding once and for all." Murmurs of _yes, Your Highness,_  vibrate along the fringes of the platform, where people are still on bended knee.  
  
At the auctioneer's triumphant bow, the prince marches up the stage. He pulls his plush, embroidered cloak off his shoulders to wrap Jongin in it.  
  
"My name is Joonmyun," he says gently, tugging the cords of the cloak to secure it around the boy's frame. "You don't have to be afraid of me."  
  
With a flash of courage—and a startling display of trust—Jongin rushes out a request. "Will you take my brother, too, sir?" His plea is shaky and pathetic, because his throat is dry with thirst, and the rest of him weak from deprivation. Jongin doesn't care a whit at this point. "I cannot go anywhere with you, otherwise."  
  
Immediately, the prince's gaze swings to Chanyeol, standing in the pit behind the stage, his hands over his privates. That noble face mellows once more, then flickers with rage, then shapes itself, finally, into resolve. Jongin follows the shift from one emotion to the next, hoping against hope.  
  
"Of course I will," the prince assures him. "I'll take you both. Today."  
  
He turns back to the auctioneer to discuss the transfer of Chanyeol into his care—but his hand rests squarely over the top of Jongin's arm, where the cloak won't cover the skin. Jongin senses the protection in it. Pure instinct.  
  
Deep inside him, where the terror of the past several days has hardened into a crust over his heart, something gives a little. Eases. Melts.  
  
"Sold!" he hears over the noise of the market.  
  
Chanyeol shuts both eyes in relief. Jongin opens his hand then, and the poison berries tumble down to his feet, untouched.  


 

 

⤫

  
  
Nana's hair streams into her face, pushed here and there by an insistent breeze. Chanyeol is trying his best to rake it away. His sweetheart has pressed a wave into each lock with a hot iron to show him (and shyly preen). He doesn't want the whole thing spoilt, if only for her sake.  
  
But the wind swells, and Chanyeol's long, calloused fingers catch in the fine strands, tangling.  
  
Nana laughs, bringing up her own hands to help. "You do more harm than good."  
  
"I'm sorry," Chanyeol says helplessly. "Have I ruined it? I don't really know  _what_ I'm doing."  
  
She unwinds his fingers from her hair, murmuring, "It's all right, I don't mind at all."  
  
Jongin spies the kiss she presses briefly into Chanyeol's palm, and the smitten half-smile it pulls over his brother's face.  
  
Chanyeol, today, towers over every servant in the palace. Confident, sturdy, and good with animals, he is excellently placed as the right hand to the stable master. Nana, on the other hand, is the cosmetic servant to Princess Boa (the eldest of the royals). "Nana the Fair," they call her in the downstairs halls, for her face like a painting.  
  
Boy and girl had met the same year the brothers were found at the auction and brought to the palace. The attraction—even at that age, even under those circumstances—was instant. By the third year, they were promised, at sixteen.  
  
Their love is quiet yet potent, like the undertow in the sea, sweeping them away into a deeper world. And Jongin is happy for them—truly happy, and so proud. But he is unspeakably lonely, because theirs is a world he may never enter. And beyond that, he is afraid, because he knows if his heart does not change, he will never have what they have.  
  
"How are the horses?" Nana asks, toying with the short hairs on the back of Chanyeol's neck. He has flopped to his stomach on the grass, his upper body draped over her lap. Whenever they find the time, they take their midday meal in the pasture by the stables. Jongin gets dragged along most days.  
  
"Skittish," Chanyeol tells her matter-of-factly. He takes her hand in his, letting her toy with his fingers instead. "There's a new steed in the stables. A little wild. Stable master says he just got off a ship—and he's got the others on edge."  
  
"A horse for one of the princes?" Nana muses, her forefinger tracing an infinite loop over his knuckles.  
  
Chanyeol shakes his head. "He belongs to the visitor."  
  
That pricks up Jongin's ears. He wipes his mouth with a piece of linen. "What visitor, hyung?"  
  
"A childhood friend of Prince Joonmyun's." Chanyeol looks over at him, hair in tufts from the breeze. "Did he not tell you? The man arrived today."  
  
The prince  _had_ mentioned a visitor, come to think of it—months ago, when he was still wearing his hair a little long. But then the arranged meetings had begun at the behest of the King and Queen. A parade of wealthy, marriageable noblewomen like Watanabe Keiko had come and gone and sometimes, come again. Preoccupied with  _those_ visits—ones that potentially shortened his time by the prince's side—Jongin had let the date slip through the cracks.  
  
"You'll meet him soon enough," Chanyeol says. He plants a kiss on Nana's knee, where the modest slit in her dress reveals a crescent of skin. She swats playfully at his mouth, and Chanyeol takes the blow with a glorious grin.  
  
He's right, of course. At the supper bell, when Jongin comes to oversee service, there's a stranger sitting next to Joonmyun at the dining table.  
  
"Good evening, Your Highness," Jongin murmurs, hands folded as he dips his head.  
  
The prince smiles at him, radiating warmth. "There you are. I've been wondering where you were off to." He says it with so much affection, it sparks a treacherous heat deep within Jongin's chest.  
  
"My apologies," he says, averting his gaze. "I didn't realize I was late."  
  
"Not at all." Joonmyun's eyes crinkle. "We settled here hours ago to catch up. You arrived at the perfect moment."  
  
Then he ducks his chin, lifts his eyebrows encouragingly, which means he is asking Jongin to come closer (just the way he used to, when the younger man was still a frightened child, hiding in the dusty nooks of the palace, missing his parents).  
  
Of course Jongin follows.  
  
"This is my friend, Yixing." Joonmyun gestures to his companion. "He's sailed halfway around the world to get here."  
  
"Zhang Yixing," the stranger introduces himself. His voice is somewhat melodic, and his diction prettily accented, as if each word is a sweet with an exotic taste. "And you must be Jongin."  
  
The younger unbends his body from its respectful bow. There's an attractive, open face regarding him. Probably thirty, Joonmyun's age. But the prince has always looked so much younger, childlike.  
  
Jongin replies with flawless court etiquette. "At your service, my lord." This Zhang Yixing knows his name, which means Joonmyun has spoken of him at least once. Jongin wishes he knew exactly how he'd come up in the course of their conversation.  
  
"Just hyung will do," Yixing responds. "I'm a wandering commoner, not a prince like our mutual friend here." He leans in towards Jongin, his body language confiding. "Does being in Joonmyun's service suit you? Or shall I take you away with me when my visit is over?"  
  
Joonmyun scoffs. "Do not attempt to align yourself with Jongin. He is devoted to me." He glances in Jongin's direction, the look in his eyes assured. Or is it hopeful? "At least, that's what he says when I ask."  
  
"Absolutely, Your Highness," is all Jongin permits himself. The rest of it remains unsaid. Not even Chanyeol knows of his true feelings.  
  
_Devoted to, and then some._  
  
He notices only then that Yixing is still staring at him. The older man's face teems with interest. It's a peculiar expression, Jongin thinks—one that resembles the surface of a koi pond, flickering and rippling with the movement below.  
  
But despite the stare pinning Jongin down, Yixing's next words are pointed not at him. Clever and knowing, the visitor's eyes shift to a different target.  
  
"How mysterious you are, Joonmyun."  
  
The prince is piqued. He blinks, eyelashes long and black. "In what aspect, exactly?"  
  
A brief pause stills the conversation. Jongin takes the opportunity to busy his hands. He plucks two crystal glasses from a tray, filling them halfway with wine. The decanter holds white this time—a clear, golden liquid that smells faintly of peaches.  
  
"Oh, nothing bad." Yixing waves a hand airily. He draws a glass towards himself by the base, smiling down at the table, expression unclear. "Just your own devotion."  


 

 

⤫

  
  
At fourteen, Jongin makes up his mind to go into service.  
  
He and Chanyeol have been living in the palace for two years. They are viewed as guests of the prince. Unorthodox guests, certainly, who choose to sleep and take their meals and help out with the drudgery  _downstairs,_  instead of residing in the special guest quarters offered to them, time and time again, and with measured tact, by Joonmyun himself.  
  
He does insist on private schooling from Prince Sehun's tutor, who is on-hand daily. Jongin loathes the thought of being a charity case, and Chanyeol's shoulders stiffen every time the tutor arrives, face much too kindly and sympathetic for their liking. But Joonmyun will not take no for an answer.  
  
Today is the perfect rest day—clear, warm, and idle. Chanyeol is off on errands with Nana (no doubt to fawn over her in his wordless way, as she carries out the mundane task of picking flowers for Princess Boa). Jongin has not been invited to come, which is fine by him. There is something more important he needs to do, anyway—and it's to be here, by the only lake on palace grounds, to settle something with Joonmyun.  
  
The prince is stripped down to his undergarments in preparation for his usual swim. His skin is a pale, pale gold, oiled with rosehip for protection.  
  
"Your Highness," Jongin ventures. "There is something I'd like to say."  
  
Joonmyun turns to face him, interest playing on his fine features. "Go ahead."  
  
Jongin soaks in the jut of the prince's collarbones, the carved definition of his abdominal muscles, the broad reach of his back when he bends to pour more oil into his hands.  
  
He diverts his attention, for a moment, to the reeds swaying prettily by the lake's edge. "I would like to be of use to you."  
  
Surprise overtakes the prince's expression. "How?"  
  
"I..." Jongin clears his throat. "I know you find yourself without a manservant these days." The last one, Jongdae, had recently gotten married, suddenly found himself with a new farm as dowry, and swiftly been granted leave to run it by the kind prince.  
  
"Yes," Joonmyun says patiently. "What of it, young one?"  
  
The endearment comes with no warning, like always. It used to make Jongin feel safe—but now, something pools hot and discomfiting in his gut.  
  
He's been inexplicably drawn to the prince for some time now; sneaking glances at him between lessons, across rooms and tables. He observes the melody of Joonmyun's laugh when Boa shares an amusing story, the column of his neck when he tips his head back at the end of a long day, the smiling creases in the corners of his eyes when Jongin approaches him, tentatively, with a question. Jongin knows the feeling of the prince's warm hand, square between his shoulder blades, by heart.  
  
He knows it's strange. But last year, he'd seen the prince pluck a flea-ridden pup from the side of the road, nursing it back to health with his own hands, in his own bed. Since then, Jongin has found himself particularly observant when the royal is nearby, and unable to work out the constant thrum in his chest.  
  
(That pup, he thinks, is kind of like him.)  
  
"I'd like to be of service," Jongin repeats, breathing out his nostrils. "Take Jongdae's place." He pushes a little more, before he loses his nerve. "There is no better way for me to repay my debt."  
  
He already knows the prince will not like that. As if on cue, Joonmyun grunts, grabs his undershirt to wipe off his hands, and tosses it unceremoniously to the ground.  
  
"Jongin." His voice is tight. "How many times—"  
  
"Forgive me," Jongin cuts him off, feeling out-of-bounds. "I know what you want to say: that we owe you nothing."  _A falsehood,_  he thinks, worrying at his lip. He tries a different approach. "Your Highness, my brother already works daily with the horses at the stable. And you haven't uttered a word in protest…"  
  
"The stable master tells me he's a natural," Joonmyun reasons. "I've said nothing because the work makes Chanyeol happy."  
  
"And this would make me happy, too," Jongin mutters.  
  
"Will it really?" the prince shoots back dryly. "Preparing my clothes, heating my bathwater, serving my supper—this would all bring you happiness?" He turns his back on Jongin. "Palace servants are born into service, Jongin. It's a family tradition. They aren't trapped into the trade by something terrible that happened to them when they were children."  
  
Jongin take a step forward, hands balling up at his sides. "It isn't just that I want to pull my weight—which I do," he expresses with urgency. "I'd like to try  _something,_  Your Highness. See what I'm good at, what it is I have to offer. I was too young when—when you found me. So the truth is I hardly don't know what I  _can_ do."  
  
That's the last argument left in Jongin's arsenal.  
  
Shockingly, it works. The prince sighs in resignation. His solid shoulders slope downwards in defeat.  
  
"All right," he concedes, _finally._ "You've won."  
  
Jongin tries not to smile too widely. He already feels the tops of his cheeks pushing into the skin underneath his eyes, sealing his elation in place. "Thank you, Your Highness," he breathes out, his voice as bright as the sun in the trees. "I won't disappoint you."  
  
The prince clicks his tongue, more amused than annoyed now. He eases into a low chuckle. "You are able to maneuver me so well."  
  
"Not at all, Your Highness," Jongin tries to say, humbled, still beaming.  
  
But Joonmyun has already turned his back. He pushes the last of his clothing down to pile in the grass, not in the least self-conscious. As he steps out of the undergarments, Jongin's eyes fall on the muscles in the prince's upper thighs, the smooth, taut shape of his buttocks, for the very first time.  
  
_A manservant sees his master naked every day,_  a sensible voice whispers in his head.  _Don't be a baby._  
  
Of course, this does nothing to allay the sharp spike of his desire—and the delicate, poignant brush of longing that comes with it. Jongin's stomach writhes, and his face burns.  
  
He knows this is the moment to look away, to study the patterns made by the clouds in the summer sky and the browning tips of the dry grass and pretend these are the most fascinating things in the world. And yet he keeps his eyes glued to the sight of the prince wading, unclothed, into the cool, blue lake.  
  
Joonmyun's body reflects the morning light like a mirror, sculpted by shadows in the strongest areas. Everything is mesmerizing.  
  
Only when his head and shoulders remain above water does the prince glance back.  
  
"There's no need to stay," he puts forth in a neutral tone.  
  
"I'm sorry," Jongin stammers, blinking himself out of a trance. "I'll leave you now. I didn't mean to linger." He scrambles to his feet, mouth moving over more apologies with no actual sound behind them. Everything is embarrassing.  
  
But the prince has more to say. "There's no need to go, either, Jongin."  
  
He sounds unsure this time, so Jongin hazards a peek at his face. It brims with fondness, nice and easy.  
  
"Do whatever pleases you." Joonmyun shrugs. The lake water ripples around his shoulders. "I just want you to be happy."  
  
"Oh," Jongin murmurs, his lips holding the roundedness of the word. "Oh." His knees falter only a moment before he's sinking back down into the dying grass. "Then I will stay, Your Highness, if it pleases you."  
  
"Of course," the prince replies. He smiles, fleetingly, before tipping his head back and relaxing into the shallow waves.  
  
Jongin will always remember this moment. The sunlight is soft, creeping over the back of his neck, and the earthy smell of wet shore clings to the inside of his nostrils. That is exactly how, and exactly when, he falls in love.  


 

 

⤫

  
  
Zhang Yixing is a guest of Prince Joonmyun's for three months. It's an entire summer—a season that should flit past as swiftly and gracefully as a flock of migrating birds. But this summer, time drags on. Because for every month Zhang Yixing is present, something  _happens_ —something that makes life difficult in the palace for three of its servants.  
  
It's as though the newcomer's stay has brought about a curse.  
  
That's what Nana tells Jongin, anyway.  
  
  
  
  
The first thing that happens sends Chanyeol spiraling into a rage.  
  
It starts on a muggy, windless day, when Prince Sehun comes home from his overseas studies. He is Jongin's age, exactly—two years over twenty. If the whispers of the scullery maids are to be believed, the youngest prince is also the most handsome, and most likely to get his way.  
  
When he strides into Boa's room to greet her, his gaze falls on Nana, mixing flower paints for the princess' lips. Sehun remains in his sister's company for the rest of the day. His eyes trail after her cosmetic servant for the rest of the week.  
  
Jongin notices immediately. But he doesn't say anything, assuming the infatuation will pass just like so many of the royals' whims.  
  
He knows he is dead wrong when the prince comes into the servants' kitchen and asks Nana, directly, for a drink of water.  
  
It ruffles her. The unease flickers across her face like candlelight. The regular kitchen is four flights of stone staircase above, where the royals have easy access to it (or at least, their handmaidens and manservants do, on their behalf).  
  
But Nana dips her head cordially, putting down the earthenware cup in her grasp and rising from her seat.  
  
"Just a moment, Your Highness," she murmurs. "The proper glasses are upstairs—"  
  
"Never mind that," Sehun replies. "I can drink from yours."  
  
Nana balks, unable to hide her bewilderment. "But—"  
  
"Please." And Sehun cranes just a little lower, speaks just a notch softer. "I'm parched."  
  
Lips pressed together, the girl ladles cold water into her cup and hands it to the prince.  
  
He makes sure to slide his fingers against hers when he takes it. And after he's taken a draft, he licks his lips, like he's looking for a particular taste.  
  
Nana glues her eyes to the kitchen's crude floor.  
  
Jongin comes to stand next to her in an attempt to deflect Sehun's attention. "Can I offer you anything else, my lord?" he asks.  
  
"Thank you, Jongin, but no." Sehun doesn't even spare him a glance. "Perhaps my brother could use some refreshment in his quarters?"  
  
Even if Jongin was less perceptive—even if he hadn't seen the smoldering look Sehun lays on Nana's face like a caress—he isn't stupid. He knows when someone is trying to get rid of him.  
  
"The prince is with the sword master, my lord," Jongin says carefully. "He and Lord Yixing are sparring this afternoon, and did not want to be disturbed."  
  
The space between his arm and Nana's electrifies with a tense energy. Jongin wishes Chanyeol was back in the palace, instead of out in the fields with Yixing's thoroughbred for its daily trot.  
  
He feels Sehun's eyes on him then.  
  
"I see," the youngest prince says, taking a step back. He crosses his arms across his chest and rests his weight on one leg. This makes his stance seem a little more casual. Rakish. Irresistible.  
  
Another calculated move.  
  
"Are you married?" Sehun asks abruptly. When Jongin jerks up, the prince's eyes are boring into Nana's.  
  
"No, Your Highness," is her measured reply. The words drag against each other, like she doesn't want to say them.  
  
"That is good news."  
  
"But I am promised," Nana perseveres, her voice a little louder, words a little steadier, "and am as good as wed."  
  
The prince's smile is a small one. "To this man?"  
  
Jongin squares his shoulders, standing taller for his brother.  
  
"No," Nana replies. "To Chanyeol, who works in the stables."  
  
A lush and dangerous softness coats Sehun's features. "How long have you had this arrangement?"  
  
"Since we were sixteen, my lord."  
  
"You must be in love with him."  
  
"I am."  
  
"And has he touched you?"  
  
Nana's eyes flash with indignation, and suddenly she is raising her head high. She reminds Jongin, at this moment, of Chanyeol's wildest mares—the ones he finds most difficult to break.  
  
"My lord," Nana grits out, "that is no concern of yours."  
  
Sehun isn't smiling anymore. He isn't gloating either. No, it looks to Jongin as though he is…desperate. Helpless and hurt and aroused and pulled a little too taut, all at once.  
  
He steps closer, the movement a plea in itself.  
  
"If he hasn't," Sehun whispers, "come to me, day or night, and I will."  
  
Nana gasps.  
  
Jongin instinctively takes a step in front of her. "My lord," he warns, his voice more menacing than he'd intended.  
  
"Thank you for the water," Sehun says abruptly.  He deposits the cup on the closest surface and sends a final, lingering look at the object of his affection. "Think about what I said, Nana the Fair."  
  
To Jongin, he gives the following instructions: "Tell my brother I will be joining him for dinner, and that I wish for us not to be disturbed, either."  
  
Then he spins on his heel and climbs back up the stairs, leaving the pair of them too stunned to speak.  
  
Chanyeol does not have the same problem when they tell him all that has happened, well into the night.  
  
"That bastard." His deep voice booms, ping-ponging against thin walls. He paces the room in long, jerky strides. "I would throttle him if he wasn't Prince Joonmyun's brother!"  
  
Jongin stands in the doorframe, letting his brother have it out.  
  
"These  _royals._ " Chanyeol swipes his fingers across his mouth, like the word is a filthy thing he wants to be rid of. The half-chuckle, half-growl that follows only makes Jongin grimace. "They pride themselves on breeding and refinement— _enlightenment,_ " his brother seethes, "but they're no better than dogs in heat."  
  
"Chanyeol, please," Nana implores him. She looks so afraid. "They will  _hear_ you."  
  
He sneers at the wall. "And what if they do?"  
  
"Shhh," she tries to placate him, fingers curling into the neckline of her dress.  
  
"Ah, yes," Chanyeol barrels on, like he hasn't heard a thing. "They'll lock me up or banish me—have me killed conveniently. Foist you over to the youngest prince as his prize. Of course."  
  
The Nana Jongin knows would throw a quilt in his brother's face and demand he calm down, so they can talk about this like adults. But she seems terribly shaken, until now, by the encounter with Sehun—because this Nana covers her face with her hands and shivers.  
  
"Stop it," she pleads in a sob only slightly muffled by her fingers. "Just. Stop."  
  
That halts Chanyeol in his tracks.  
  
"What—" In a second, his tone has drastically altered. "Nana?"  
  
She shakes her head violently, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyelids.  
  
Jongin watches his brother come over to his sweetheart, crouching in front of her. "Nana." Chanyeol wedges a hand between both of hers to cup her cheek. "I'm sorry. Have I frightened you? I'm sorry."  
  
Nana slips off her seat, folds herself into his lap. "You will not make me live without you," she mumbles into Chanyeol's shoulder. "You will  _not_. I will  _never_ forgive you."  
  
When Chanyeol starts kissing her, his free hand stroking up and down her spine, Jongin slips out of the room.  
  
"I'm sorry," Chanyeol is saying again, muffling the words into her neck. The kisses he lands there make soft, wet sounds. "I didn't mean it, I swear."  
  
The last thing Jongin hears as he shuts the door behind him is Nana's gentle, low-pitched moan.  
  
  
  
  
The next month, Jongin is placed an extremely unexpected situation.  
  
One night, Zhang Yixing kisses him just outside Joonmyun's room. The prince is running a fever, and Jongin has just returned from the kitchens with something medicinal for his tea.  
  
Yixing appears out of nowhere, only whispering a quick  _Jongin_ before pushing the younger man against the wall. He holds Jongin's face between his rough hands, thumbs stroking over Jongin's chapped lips. Then he tilts his head and seals their mouths together like two halves of the same fruit.  
  
Jongin struggles at first, because Yixing is not Joonmyun, and Jongin has never considered anybody else.  
  
But Yixing is surprisingly well-built, and Jongin can't seem to push him off—not while he's holding a bowl of dried chrysanthemums in one hand and a tray of iced linens for the prince's forehead in the other.  
  
And beyond that…this is Jongin's first kiss in twenty-two years of existence. It's warm and wet, hard and thorough, and Yixing is licking over his tongue in a way that makes his head spin. Everything tastes like the sweet red wine the man has brought with him in his galleon of continental delights. Jongin catches himself groaning into the kiss, feeling dirty when he does, eyelids fluttering.  
  
He never does close them, though.  
  
By the time Yixing releases him from his hold, Jongin's mouth has swollen into a puff. His cheeks are the color of peach blossoms. His hands have pressed the bowl of desiccated flowers and tray of compresses against his hipbones, where tomorrow, the skin will bruise.  
  
Yixing is looking him over, the expression on his face rueful. "It's not fair," he mumbles, with no segue at all, "but I get it now." Then he pecks Jongin once more, carefully, licking at the seam of his lips.  
  
He leaves directly after that, without so much as a goodnight. For several minutes, Jongin slumps against the wall, trying to catch his breath and failing to process what has just happened to him.  
  
"You look drained," Joonmyun mumbles from his bed, as Jongin pours hot water over a sieve of chrysanthemums. "You should get some rest."  
  
Jongin crosses the room. He keeps his face still. "I will, Your Highness, once you've fallen asleep."  
  
The mattress gives way under Jongin's weight as he helps the prince sit up. He hands Joonmyun a cup of tea, the yellow of it as strong as its aroma. "Please drink the whole thing. It will help bring down the fever."  
  
"All right," the prince susurrates, fingers lacing as he cradles the cup in his hands. He sips from it, swallowing the liquid with a weak gulp. When he exhales, his breath is warm on Jongin's face.  
  
"Too hot?" Jongin reaches for the tea to check.  
  
Joonmyun shakes his head, eyes groggy. "It's delicious." He takes another sip and leans his head against his companion's shoulder. "Thank you, Jongin."  
  
His forehead is so smooth, with the barest sheen of sweat glistening over the brow line. So close, Jongin could turn his face, dip down, and kiss the skin.  
  
Then he remembers that his lips have just been between Yixing's, and it forces him to look the other way.  
  
In the morning, Joonmyun's fever is gone, but Jongin insists he take breakfast in bed. When Yixing swans into the room, collapsing over the prince's covers to pick at the fruit on his tray, Jongin makes himself scarce.  
  
This continues for the next few days, which turn into the next few weeks.  
  
The kiss is never re-enacted. Yixing only acts as he had before: friendly and candid, with a touch of flirtation and more physical contact than necessary. Jongin is a little more wary of that last part, nowadays.  
  
Once, Yixing bumps into him as they pass each other in a doorway. Jongin rounds a corner too sharply, and his chest collides with one of Yixing's shoulders. The older man stumbles, placing both hands on Jongin's waist to steady himself.  
  
That is how Jongin finds himself peering down into that droll face, two months familiar, an inch too close for comfort.  
  
"Careful," Yixing says, smile unreadable. "You might run into a wall next time."  
  
His hands squeeze Jongin's waist before he goes on his way.  
  
Jongin senses the prince's eyes on him from the far end of the room—and worse, the color heightening in his cheeks.  
He is scooping chopped lychees over a bowl of shaved ice when the question is asked.  
  
"Does Yixing make you uncomfortable?"  
  
The tone is innocent enough, but Jongin knows when Joonmyun is choosing his words.  
  
He sets the refreshment in front of the royal, eyelids at half-mast. "No, Your Highness."  
  
"You know you can tell me the truth."  
  
Jongin breathes steadily, but his spine tenses. "Yes, Your Highness."  
  
"So explain," Joonmyun says, fiddling with the ceramic spoon Jongin has also placed before him. "Explain why you've stopped meeting his eyes when he speaks to you, and why you freeze whenever he touches you by accident, as you did just now." He pitches the spoon into the sweet ice, licking the corner of his mouth.  
  
Jongin can't think of anything else to do but dip his head. "It's only out of habit, Your Highness. I didn't realize you'd noticed."  
  
"But I did," Joonmyun mutters, tongue wetting both lips this time. "Has something happened between you two?"  
  
He's been caught out. Jongin's eyes widen, and he casts about for words. But even as the nerves jolt his body like hard liquor, his mind lingers obsessively over a single strained note in the prince's voice. It makes him sound, almost, jealous.  
  
Joonmyun draws in a breath through his nostrils. "Has he…has Yixing seduced you?" He exhales on a chuckle, and the notes in  _that_ ring just shy of bitter. His spoon stabs into the ice again and again, making a dent in the middle and pushing bits of fruit to the sides. "You see, I know how he is when he sets his mind to something—"  
  
"No," Jongin interjects tenderly, his own heart hammering against his chest. "Not at all, Your Highness. Forgive me, but you have misjudged the situation."  
  
The prince's cool fingertips ghost over his wrist bone. They feel like a reward for a correct answer.  
  
"So he hasn't succeeded," Joonmyun ruminates, voice marginally more even. "But has he tried?"  
  
Four fingers curl around Jongin's wrist as a thumb presses into the palm of his hand. It doesn't caress him; just rests there, waiting.  
  
"He…" Jongin can't decide what the better course of action is—to lie and appease the prince, or to obey him and be truthful. "I…"  
  
The thumb brushes over one of his lifelines, back and forth, back and forth. It shouldn't be erotic, but Jongin keens from the sensation, anyway.  
  
"What has he done?" Joonmyun persists in a gravelly tone. "Tell me now."  
  
And out it comes.  
  
"He surprised me," Jongin admits, "with a kiss." He barely realizes what he is saying until it cannot be unsaid.  
  
Besides a twitch in the prince's small mouth, Jongin is hard-pressed to find a reaction.  
  
He still attempts to do damage control the very next instant. "It was only once, Your Highness. Weeks ago. I felt nothing, and I lost nothing." His eyes shutter, but he keeps on going. "It would be unnecessary, truly, for you to broach the subject with Lord Yixing."  
  
For a long, long moment, Joonmyun gazes at him. The look in those almond eyes is indecipherable. All Jongin sees are flecks in dark pools, like the tea leaves some of the servants claim they can read, far beyond his interpretation.  
  
"If you say so," Joonmyun says, more breath than vowels and consonants.  
  
He loosens his hold on Jongin, and Jongin is reminded of that one time, in the bath, when they'd found themselves in a similar position. Joonmyun's fingers remain in a lax curl around him. Jongin could jerk away in a second, rub the sensitivity from his wrist, go straight back to work.  
  
Instead, he draws his hand from the prince's grasp in slow motion—a painstaking, meaningful retreat. He experiences the endearing dampness of Joonmyun's palm on the back of his hand. He feels the heat and trepidation in Joonmyun's elegant fingers when his own brush over them. He lets his nails trace lines and grooves, keeps every tip in contact with Joonmyun's soft skin. When their hands finally separate (Joonmyun's own flipping over pliantly, their middle fingers touching ‘til the final moment), it feels, maddeningly, like a kiss.  
  
Jongin presses his hand against his thigh, body electric.  
  
"I'll be standing outside the door if you need me," he murmurs, not bothering to wait for Joonmyun's nod before leaving him to fend for himself on this hot, sticky afternoon.  
  
  
  
  
It's during the third month of Yixing's stay that everything comes to a head, and all at once.  _That's why it's so painful,_ Jongin will admit to himself later on, when it is finished.  
  
On the last day of summer, when a breeze dances through the trees, bringing with it the scent of fall, Watanabe Keiko returns.  
  
The princess glides through the palace corridors like she has lived there all her life. She is dressed in lavish silks and the rarest jewels; her hair loose, inviting. This time, she wears fewer cosmetics on her face; more fabric…everywhere.  
  
Jongin almost finds her pretty, in spite of himself. Because she is. Very,  _very_ pretty, and desirable to so many other royals.  
  
Now that her beauty has been allowed to seep through all the pomp and flash, it makes her seem rather formidable.  
  
"Hello, Keiko," Joonmyun greets her when they are finally in the same room. "Stylish as ever."  
  
"And you look gorgeous as always." The lady holds out a hand so Joonmyun can grasp her fingertips. "My liege."  
  
Joonmyun laughs. "Your liege?" His eyes are crescents, and Jongin smiles, because the prince's expression is infectious.  
  
Keiko smiles, too; a sideward purse of the lips. It seems shrewd, in a way. She withdraws her hand, dipping her head.  
  
Joonmyun remains amused. "What's this, princess? Are we on formal terms now?" He gestures for her to take a seat. "Has it been that long since your first visit?"  
  
"Much too long, prince," she replies, in  _sotto voce,_ settling her robes around her.  
  
"We'll pick up where we left off, then." He's using his diplomatic voice now, the one reserved for foreign dignitaries. "Wine, I presume, Keiko?"  
  
"A man after my own heart," the lady purrs, her natural coquette resurfacing. "I've missed you, Joonmyun."  
  
The prince gives her a polite chuckle, watching Jongin decant another bottle of Lady Watanabe's rosé. The wine fills the hollow vessel with a gentle splash. Jongin hopes it distracts from the sigh that has sprung from his throat.  
  
"Is this how it's going to be?" Keiko is asking the prince.  
  
Joonmyun cocks his head, smile gone lazy. Jongin often catches this one directed at him, when the prince is drifting off into thought. Jongin can observe him openly then, for a minute or so, without fear of getting caught.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"I mean, is this how we will continue?" Keiko explains. "Me calling you by your name, and you calling me by mine."  
  
That little wrinkle between Joonmyun's eyebrows indicates he isn't following. "I don't see why not," he replies. "You dropped formalities on our very first encounter."  
  
"Well, yes," Keiko laughs, pushing her hair behind her ears. "I suppose what I'm asking is if we can remain this informal even after we are married."  
  
Joonmyun's head snaps up.  
  
"Because I would enjoy that immensely," the princess divulges. She threads her fingers through a dark, glossy lock, roping it over her shoulder. "It would almost be like our own private joke, when you are king, and I your queen."  
  
"Married?" the prince echoes, just as the decanter in Jongin's hands slips.  
  
It meets the marble floor with a terrible crash. Keiko shrieks in surprise. Instantly, the air smells too sweet, unpleasantly cloying. The precious wine is  _everywhere_. It pools around a pair of bare servant's feet—a pink halo littered with jagged constellations of glass.  
  
"I'm so sorry," Jongin mumbles, all tripping tongue and shaky adrenaline. He bows deeply—once, twice, three times. "I will remove this at once."  
  
_Married,_  he intones, the word piercing him like an arrow.  _The prince is to be married._  
  
He hears the crunch of the glass against the sole of his foot; feels the keen surprise of shard slicing skin.  
  
"Stop, Jongin," Joonmyun stands from his chair. "You're bleeding!"  
  
Something shiny glints in Jongin's eye. Another chair groans against the floor. Keiko has turned away from the sight of blood, her heavy earrings swinging.  
  
"Here." Joonmyun approaches, holding out a sinewy arm. "Cling on to me."  
  
Jongin wishes, desperately, that he could draw Joonmyun's arm around his waist. Keep it there instead.  
  
"It's nothing," he forces out, warmth flooding the space behind his nostrils. He steps out of the prince's reach.  
  
"Jongin, come on—"  
  
But Jongin shakes his head. He schools his face into submission. The chastened look of a clumsy servant is neutral territory—compared to heartbreak. "I'll be back with rags, Your Highness. Please refrain from moving around the room until I've cleared all the glass."  
  
He walks out as quickly as he can manage, cutting his other foot in the process, but feeling nothing save for the laceration in his chest.  
  
_Married._ Keiko's voice rings clear as a song through his head.  _When you are king, and I your queen._  
  
Jongin barely registers the slide of the door, the footsteps over the marble. A hot hand is gripping him by the shoulder. Then Joonmyun is whirling into view, blocking the way in front of him.  
  
"What has gotten into you?"  
  
He sounds so bewildered, and Jongin is so grateful to see him, but also lovesick and overwhelmed. It spills out before he can contain himself.  
  
"I didn't know you were to be wed, Your Highness."  
  
He almost tosses in a "Congratulations," but the pleasantry never quite makes it through.  
  
"Neither did I," Joonmyun ripostes, swift and stern. "But that's not the issue here." His hand clamps around the top of Jongin's arm. "Don't move. I will have someone come and clean your wounds first."  
  
Jongin shuts his eyes. "Your Highness, I cannot leave the room in that state. You have a guest."  
  
When he opens them again, the prince is glaring at him.  
  
"You will obey me," Joonmyun says, in a lower, more intimate voice. He's never spoken to Jongin like this before. The power behind it hammers straight into Jongin's gut, to be met with simmering heat.  
  
"Yes?" Joonmyun's gaze is ember-like.  
  
"Yes." Jongin murmurs. "Yes, Your Highness. Forgive—"  
  
"Stop apologizing," the prince cuts him off, "when you've done nothing  _wrong_."  
  
For a moment so fleeting, Jongin thinks he must have imagined it, the prince cups a hand over his cheek.  
  
"What am I going to do with you, young one?"  
  
It's like he's talking to himself.  
  
Jongin can only stare into those black-brown eyes, rapt with wonder.  
  
Joonmyun removes his hand. "Stay here," he says firmly.  
  
And then he's calling out to a passing servant, asking her to bring rags for spilt wine and to ring for the royal doctor, "so he can see to this man."


	2. Chapter 2

The marriage has been arranged by the two Queens. Jongin finds out a day later, when he brings the prince his midday meal in his room.  
  
Jongin's feet are dressed and bandaged, with only minimal sting from his cuts. They make no sound as he shuffles up to the door.  
  
He hears the voices before he can knock.  
  
"Don't be ridiculous." The Queen's unmistakable alto leaks through the partition. "We have conducted more marriage meetings than I can count. You were going to find a match before the end of the year."  
  
The prince's reply is strained. "You were to consult  _with_ me, not select my bride at whim."  
  
Jongin hears the Queen huff, imagines the stately lift of her eyebrows. "I did nothing of the sort," she responds, dryly. "I made my decision based on a careful analysis of the facts."  
  
"Which are?" Joonmyun tosses back, not without hostility.  
  
"Watanabe Keiko is wealthy, beautiful, well-connected,  _blue-blooded_ —"  
  
"Flighty, frivolous, a shameless flirt," Joonmyun rattles off on his own. "Passable as a dinner partner, but unable to hold a decent conversation unless it has to do with the kind of luxury only a fraction of the world can enjoy."  
  
"That's rich of you," the Queen says, "when your closest friend amassed his entire fortune by selling silk, spirits, and precious stones. He speaks of little else. And might I remind you, Joonmyun, that you are a  _prince_." The word is uttered with derision and dignity at once. "The lap of luxury has been your home even before you left my womb."  
  
Jongin interprets the silence that ensues as the prince's inward fuming.  
  
"That does not explain why you made the engagement official," he says, finally, in an even tighter voice. "Why did you bypass me and speak to Lady Watanabe? You say I'm a prince, but you've stripped me of my power with a single decision."  
  
"I am the Queen of this kingdom," the alto resounds through the door, "and your  _mother._  You have been playing games with me for far too long, Joonmyun."  
  
Something in the way she says it knots a web of anxiety in Jongin's stomach.  
  
He can sense tension, confusion, frustration in the prince's voice. "Your meaning?"  
  
"Did you think," the Queen hisses, as though she is afraid of being heard, "that I was unaware of the situation with your servant?"  
  
A cold, charged sweat prickles over Jongin's skin.  
  
"I know of it all," the Queen continues. "The way you favor him beyond propriety. The way he looks at you. The way you _let him look_ to his heart's content, as though he were a suitor—not a slave child you plucked from a market one summer."  
  
Jongin's throat goes completely dry. He slides away from the door, itching to run—but he can't. Not just yet. He needs to hear what the prince will say.  
  
Still, Joonmyun does not speak.  
  
"It's a cliché, you know, for someone of his rank to desire someone of yours. An even bigger cliché the other way around." The Queen is so blasé about this. "What astounds me, Joonmyun, is how you've allowed it to go on this far— _encouraged_ it, really."  
  
Jongin can feel pieces of him cutting away, falling off his bones, leaving him raw and exposed.  
  
"You haven't even bothered hiding it from the other servants. Much less Keiko, your  _betrothed_." She lingers over the last word, meaningfully, meanly. "I had to hear it from her mother after Keiko's first visit. That the Crown Prince seemed awfully protective over a manservant."  
  
"Madame," the prince says, so dark and sudden, that Jongin stops breathing. "That's enough."  
  
The Queen doesn't skip a beat. "I could say the same to you."  
  
Jongin has little more than seconds to round the corner and flatten himself against a wall. The door swings open, letting the Queen through. The train of her opulent dress drags across the floor with a whisper.  
  
She halts, briefly, beyond the doorway. "Do not make the mistake of assuming I'm outdated," she declares over her shoulder. "You are not the first man to long for another."  
  
Jongin can see the corner of her expression from where he remains hidden. Cold as ice.  
  
"Keep the handsome boy, if you like. See how long it takes Keiko to understand where her husband's true affections lie—and what measures she will take to transfer them to herself." The Queen smiles, and it's a threat. "I will certainly not meddle in her plans."  
  
Joonmyun isn't mincing his words anymore. "Do not try me."  
  
"Me?" The Queen's laugh is guttural. She starts walking again. "You will be married in a fortnight. After that, Keiko can do anything she likes—test Jongin out for herself, throw him into the streets. Do not try  _her_."  
  
Until the Queen is out of sight, her train sweeping majestically behind her, the sound of it practically a daydream, Jongin holds his breath.  
  
When he finally slides out of his hiding place, the door is still ajar. He knocks, and the movement makes the door creak on its hinges. Behind it, the prince's face is long and drawn. He's sweating a little over his eyebrows, and his mouth looks raw and red, like he's been gnawing on it.  
  
"Hello, Jongin," Joonmyun murmurs, his expression giving at the seams. "Come in."  
  
Jongin does.  
  
Joonmyun sits, and stews.  
  
The silence stifles them both like the summer heat.  
  
  
  
  
On an afternoon as cool as a fall morning, Prince Sehun crosses the line.  
  
Jongin is en route to Joonymun's quarters for another (completely silent, completely unnerving) mealtime with the prince. That's when he catches sight of Nana in the corridor. The armful of wildflowers she carries is so abundant, it sticks out on either side of her when viewed from the back, like a pair of wings. Jongin is about to call out to his friend, offer her his assistance, when he sees the youngest prince directly in her path.  
  
Wisps of Nana's hair waft about her in the breeze coming in from an open window. The light outlines her in a diffused glow, so she looks almost otherworldly.  
  
"Nana," Sehun whispers, his expression hopelessly mellow.  
  
And then it's like déjà vu.  
  
Jongin sees the prince press Nana into a wall, his face descending upon hers. When their lips meet—a heavy exhale leaving the prince's nostrils—Nana's eyes grow frantic. Then furious. Her protest is muffled by Sehun's mouth, stamping deep, urgent kisses against hers. But the way he has wedged her arms between them, still hooked around the flowers, locks her in place.  
  
Jongin rounds the corner, heat flaring in his temples. This girl might as well be his sister. He steels himself to shove the prince off of her, onto the cold floor, hard enough for bones to crack.  
  
But Nana catches his gaze before he can do anything. By mere millimeters, she shakes her head. When Jongin tries to ignore her and take another step, her eyes sharpen into points. _Don't,_  they say.  _You're smarter than that. Go back._  
  
Jongin retreats into the shadows, gritting his teeth until his jaw aches.  
  
He watches Nana's entire body go lax, unresponsive. She stares blankly into the opposite wall. She does not close her eyes, the way Jongin had not closed his.  
  
Sehun must feel the shift, because he pulls back from the kiss. He takes one look at Nana—and he must be expecting some sort of positive reaction, judging by the brightness in his gaze—because whatever he sees there makes him recoil. His face floods with anguish, the light in his eyes extinguishing.  
  
"Am I that repulsive to you?" Jongin hears the prince ask. He has pressed his forehead against Nana's. His voice is hoarse. "Is your stable boy so superior to me?"  
  
Jongin's hands spasm at his sides.  
  
"I could get rid of him so easily," the prince mutters. "I could make you mine in a day."  
  
"I will never be yours," Nana says. Her words are calm and crisp. "No matter what you do."  
  
Sehun hovers over her, breathing in, out, in, out. He stares into her face, his own tangled up in dissatisfaction. Jongin thinks he's going to kiss her again from the way the prince bows his neck, parts his lips.  
  
But he only slams a hand into the wall and pushes off it, frustrated and miserable, leaving Nana on her own in the empty corridor.  
  
Jongin stalks out immediately, wracked with concern.  
  
The Nana that shrugs off his careful touch and  _are you all right_  is the one he recognizes most. She blinks back at him, clear-eyed and strong-willed.  
  
"I've had enough," she says, her voice steeped in resignation. "We need to leave, Chanyeol and I, before he does something else to either one of us."  
  
"Leave?" Jongin's heart drops in his chest. The floor seems to be slipping beneath his feet.  
  
"Yes." Nana straightens herself, hoisting the wildflowers piled high in her arms. The blooms in the front are crushed. "Come with us?"  
  
  
  
  
Yixing announces his departure on the same day the Queen announces the wedding date.  
  
"The Crown Prince and Princess Keiko request your presence," she tells the sprawl of the palace court. "So I expect to see each and every one of you at the ceremony."  
  
The smile she bestows upon well-wishing members of the gentry and nobility is cloaked in graciousness. But in Jongin's eyes—knowing what he knows—it's nothing but a façade.  
  
From just outside the great doors, where all the servants have gathered to hear the news, Jongin cranes his neck. He spots Joonmyun soon enough behind the feeble King's throne. With his knightly posture and expression like stillwater, the prince— _Crown Prince,_  Jongin reminds himself—is virtually unreadable.  
  
The King is liberal-minded, like his middle child, and beloved for it by his people. But a chronic and debilitating illness has weakened him greatly, to the point of passivity. In his time away from court and politics, spent in the company of healers, the Queen has wielded absolute control over the lives of their children.  
  
Jongin wonders what the kind old King would think if the Queen told him of a scandal involving his eldest son and a manservant.  
  
Then he chides himself for being presumptuous. After all, the prince will not speak to him of anything now but the temperature of a bath and the garments for the next day's activities. It's as if the Queen's accusation—the one Joonmyun had neither confirmed nor refuted; the one Jongin is almost,  _almost_ certain the prince knows he was privy to—had never been uttered at all.  
  
Yixing's announcement is less of a broadcast, more of an aside.  
  
"I'm sorry," he says, when he and Joonmyun are reading in the garden with Jongin close by, as always. "I'm afraid I won't make it to your wedding."  
  
Joonmyun places his book in his lap. "Why not?" His voice is soft and surprised. Jongin thinks he sees the prince glance in his direction, but he doesn't catch it fast enough.  
  
"I sail in a week," Yixing explains casually. He rolls a blade of yellow grass between his thumb and forefinger. "I've just been waiting for the right wind. My crew tells me it's coming by the movement in the sails lately."  
  
"Oh." The prince presses his lips together, weighing out the rest of his response. It's so like him, Jongin thinks, to conceal his unhappiness even when he is entitled to it. "Can't you stay until the next good wind? I just thought…"  
  
Yixing's smile is instant, but strangely practiced. "You just thought what?"  
  
"It's silly," Joonmyun confesses, "but I was going to ask you to be my best man."  
  
On most days, Yixing is unflappable. He is mischievous and charming; endowed with the ability to take any sort of news, good or bad, with a quip and a smirk. But just then, his countenance ripples—and he almost looks pained.  
  
It's the blueprint of an emotion Jongin himself has studied closely, in the mirror, for years. And now, it bubbles to the surface of Yixing's cultivated shell.  
  
Disappointment.  
  
_He loves him,_ Jongin realizes at that very moment, throat going dry.  _And he won't stay to watch the prince get married, because it hurts._  
  
("It's not fair," Yixing had whispered against his lips, as Jongin reeled from the force of his first kiss. "But I get it now.")  
  
_He loves him. He's loved him all along._ The words roll over Jongin like the surf.  _He loves the prince, and he came to win him over. But he couldn't._  
  
There is a brief, thrilling flutter in the pit of Jongin's stomach—the gossamer wings of the tiniest incarnation of hope—when he allows himself to speculate  _why._  
  
"Then I'm even sorrier," Yixing murmurs in the present. Jongin hears it all now, loud and clear: love, longing, sorrow, mingled in with the pretty accent. "But I'll never forget the honor, prince."  
  
That softens Joonmyun considerably. He sighs, drapes his arm around his friend's shoulders. "I thought you might talk me out of it."  
  
Yixing nestles into his neck. Joonmyun chuckles, winding his arm even closer to accommodate him. Yixing closes his eyes.  
  
"You haven't even told me what you think," Joonmyun continues. "It's unlike you to be so reticent."  
  
Yixing's laugh is pitched high, but rings hollow. "About your marriage to that girl?"  
  
"Engagement," Joonmyun corrects him. "I'm not married yet."  
  
Oh—and he  _is_ looking at Jongin. Their eyes latch, blinking slow and molten. The prince allows himself a rueful sliver of a smile. Jongin gazes back, torn and taut and swollen with feeling. Always waiting for something,  _anything,_ to follow-through; never certain of its advent.  
  
"Joon," Yixing whispers. "No one can talk you out of this but you." Then he cranes up, and of course he catches the prince and Jongin with their gazes interlocked. Jongin falters first, lowering his eyelids at the scrutiny.  
  
"Well," goes the somnolent hum of Yixing's voice, "perhaps the one you love might."  
  
Joonmyun looks down at him then, and Yixing takes the opportunity to tilt the rest of the way up. The kiss is sweet and simple; a comfort one would bestow upon a child. But it still makes Jongin prickle around the ribs.  
  
It only takes a second, and Yixing pulls away. There is a single, gauzy thread of saliva connecting his mouth to Joonmyun's. Yixing brushes his fingers over the prince's lips to sweep it away, and that's what jolts the prince (who has only been staring at him, dumbfounded) back to his senses.  
  
"Yixing—"  
  
"That isn't me though," the man says, rising to leave. He tucks the blade of grass behind Joonmyun's ear. When he runs a hand through the prince's short, dark waves, lingering with a tender tug, Jongin's heart goes out to him. "Wish it was."  
  
  
  
  
That same night, Chanyeol corners Jongin in their quarters to detail the plan.  
  
"We leave in a week," the elder informs him discreetly. "I've spoken to Lord Yixing about passage on his ship, and he says there is space for the three of us."  
  
Jongin's insides flip over. "Three?"  
  
"Yes, of course, _three._  You, me, and Nana," Chanyeol replies, like it's the most ridiculous answer on the planet. "You're coming with us. And before you start worrying about the money, Lord Yixing says there's no charge as long as we earn our keep on deck."  
  
"Hyung." Jongin tries to speak lovingly, even as his body rails against the mere suggestion of departure. "I can't."  
  
Chanyeol claps large, warm hands over his shoulders. "Do you really think I would leave you here? After all we've been through together?"  
  
"We survived," Jongin mumbles, "because the prince took pity on us. We owe him.  _I_ owe him."  
  
He counts his inhales and exhales. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. That's how long Chanyeol studies him, a peculiar intensity pulsing behind his pupils.  
  
"Jonginnie," he says, with the hesitance of someone about to overstep a boundary. "I know how you feel about him."  
  
Jongin freezes. But, oddly enough, he doesn't even consider denial. "You do?"  
  
"I've known for years, I think." Chanyeol licks over his chapped lips, tries on an understanding smile. "It's not exactly blatant, but you're my little brother, and I know you too well. At least, I know you don't look at anybody else the way you look at him, when you think no one can see you."  
  
Jongin seals his eyes shut. He feels so exposed—and it must read so on his face, because Chanyeol envelops him in a tight, protective hug.  
  
"But…" Chanyeol falters, and Jongin braces his heart for the blow. He knows exactly what his brother is going to say. "You know, Jongin, that nothing can ever happen between you and the prince, don't you?"  
  
Jongin turns his face away, so Chanyeol can't read it. "He has never told me," he says into the older man's shoulder. "But hyung, I think he—"  
  
"Even if he loves you," Chanyeol tells him quietly, "he's not a free man."  
  
Jongin feels his entire face crumple, forehead to chin.  
  
"To be with you," Chanyeol says, his hand rubbing up and down Jongin's back in a plea for forgiveness, "he'd have to leave the princess. And after  _her,_  his home and position. His entire life as he knows it." The hand squeezes Jongin's shoulder, more in consolation than encouragement. "Do you think he will do that?"  
  
Jongin makes no reply, because he doesn't have an answer.  
  
"I wish he would, with all my heart. So you could be happy." Chanyeol's baritone rumbles against the crown of his head. "But Jongin…the odds are against you."  
  
"I know," Jongin mutters.  
  
"So come with us," his brother urges him. "There will be nothing left for you here once the prince marries. Not unless you're willing to keep your true feelings hidden for the rest of your life in his service."  
  
Jongin thinks of Chanyeol and Nana then, having their midday meals together in the pasture behind the stables. How they are so in love, so fiercely devoted, they would leave behind a happy, comfortable life just to protect one another.  
  
He thinks of Zhang Yixing, wonders how many years the man has pined for the prince—only to watch his longtime love fall into an engagement to a newcomer. How his only recourse was to make a swift and graceful escape. Move on.  
  
And then Jongin thinks of his own situation. He tries to envision himself years down the road, getting older and losing the novelty of youth, as Joonmyun grows more and more distant. He imagines the day Keiko gives the prince his first child, and Jongin wonders how he will cope with that on his own, with an ocean between him and Chanyeol and Nana. He dreads, even now, the moment Joonmyun begins to love his wife, because their daily proximity and the temptation of her beauty make it so easy. Jongin thinks of himself fading into the background like a piece of furniture, his situation unchanged; his whole life based and wasted on a season of attraction in his youth; a great-almost-nothing love never expressed, confirmed, or reciprocated by a prince too careful to let his guard down.  
  
His earlier words to his brother ricochet back.  
  
_He has never told me._  
  
This time, Jongin thinks,  _Will he ever?_  
  
Chanyeol loosens his hold, and in a brotherly voice says, "Don't overthink it." He rests a hand on top of Jongin's head."Just come with us, and start over."  
  
  
  
  
In the end, Jongin succumbs.  
  
Because he is terrified to be left without family, because everything around him is changing faster than the color of the leaves in the trees, and because of the constant, worsening ache in his chest that Jongin knows will never calm without distance, he decides to go—and tells his brother so, to the relief of the latter.  
  
"I knew you would," Chanyeol responds, his eyes grateful, but also cautious. Nana kisses Jongin on the cheek and whispers, "I'm sorry it has to be this way," and that's how Jongin realizes he wasn't being quite so discreet, after all.  
  
There are only a handful of days between the time he makes his choice and Yixing's date of departure. At unpredictable moments, when he watches the prince partake of a quiet meal or hunch over in the bathing tub as Jongin dutifully soaps his back, Jongin toys with the childish idea of slinking off without a word. No closure, no last goodbye. No explanation. Because it's going to be difficult, to say the least—coming clean. He's not sure he can get through it in one piece.  
  
But the notion is always ephemeral. Jongin's conviction ultimately gets the better of him, and he sweeps the idea away as easily as he would a cobweb. No, he decides, he will let the prince know from his own mouth that he is going away. And more than that—he will confess. To everything.  
  
Only then can he leave in peace.  
  
The night before Yixing's ship sets sail, Jongin slips out of his quarters against Chanyeol's counsel to bring the prince a flagon of drinking water.  
  
Jongin raps on the door. One, two.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"It's Jongin, Your Highness."  
  
"Come in."  
  
The prince has put out most of his candles, but his rooms are decadent even in the dark. Jongin finds him in a great old chair by one of the windows, a book on the table next to him, unread.  
  
When Joonmyun turns to face him, his eyes are dull and lifeless.  
  
"What is it, Jongin?"  
  
The way he drones it out—none of the usual lilting reassurance in his voice—makes the younger man apprehensive. "I've brought you water, Your Highness." Jongin dips his head. "Forgive me for the intrusion."  
  
The prince gestures at the table, saying nothing else. Like clockwork, Jongin places two small woven mats on the table, so the condensation of the water does not ruin the expensive wood underneath. Then he puts down a decanter filled with ice water, and a cylindrical glass with slices of lemon and cucumber wedged into it.  
  
There. He's carried out the charade. And now, Jongin has to carry out the real business of saying goodbye. Abandoning his first and last love. After tonight, he may never see the prince again. The inescapable truth of that feels like glass goring skin.  
  
"Your Highness—"  
  
"So there  _is_ something else." Joonmyun's voice is flat, his manner curt. "I figured as much, since you went through the trouble of serving me something I made no request for."  
  
Jongin hangs his head, biting his lips and feeling stupid. "Forgive me for the pretense, Your Highness. It was not to deceive you; nothing like that. But I need to tell you—"  
  
"That you are leaving," Joonmyun cuts in, timbre completely deadened now. "Tomorrow, on Yixing's ship, with your brother and his lover, because  _my_ brother won't stop making advances on her." His eyes blaze with a resentment Jongin has never found directed at him before.  
  
The servant stiffens, his breath snagging in his throat.  
  
The prince is taking no prisoners tonight. "That is what you've been keeping from me, isn't it?" His mouth is straight line, the pink tip of a pale tongue hovering in the corner.  
  
Jongin's throat works, sticky, like he's swallowed a pull of taffy along with his nerves. "Did Lord Yixing—"  
  
"Of course he told me. Yixing's my oldest friend, and he…loves me." Joonmyun looks elsewhere. "He told me everything the same day Chanyeol booked your passage. Yixing assumed you'd already taken your leave of me." His expression hardens again, and he gets up from his chair. "So explain to me, Jongin. What was your plan? To write me a note? Send a messenger once the boat had set sail?"  
  
Hurt makes the biggest dent in the royal's voice, pitching into a medley of other emotions Jongin has no time to distinguish from one another.  
  
So he just shakes his head, eyes round. He holds his hands out in front of him in a conciliatory way. "No, Your Highness, I couldn't, that's why I'm here…"  
  
"You leave tomorrow!" And Joonmyun loses his temper. "You've laid your plans, and now you bring them to me as fact! Goddammit, Jongin, you didn't even give me a chance to—"  
  
And suddenly, the prince stops. His face is ashen. His mouth hangs agape, brimming with things he can't seem to say. He recollects himself; rubs a hand over his neck, through his hair. His next few words follow the saddest exhale.  
  
"Have you forgotten what you said?"  
  
Jongin's face suffuses with color. His pulse quickens, and his fists ball up at his sides.  
  
"You said," Joonmyun mutters, "you would never leave me."  
  
"You must know," Jongin forces out, dizzy-drunk-desperate courage grabbing hold of his heart. "You must know why I have no other choice."  
  
The air around them charges with a strange new energy. "Tell me," Joonmyun says, and he steps closer, and closer still, to where Jongin is trembling like a leaf. " _Tell_ me."  
  
Jongin's voice is broken. "Don't you know?"  
  
Color and light steal back into the prince's countenance. Suddenly, Jongin's face is cradled in his hands. He doesn't know how it happened, but the prince is brushing their lips together; barely-there, fraught with desire.  
  
"Tell me," Joonmyun says, a final time. His lips are chapped, and he smells of the fragrant oils Jongin poured into his bath earlier this evening, "Tell me how you feel."  
  
A missing piece slots into place.  
  
"I love you, my lord," Jongin whispers. "When you marry her, it will break me."  
  
And then Jongin finds himself in the prince's arms, and everything is soft and dark and safe.  
  
The first taste he gets of Joonmyun's mouth is sweet. Honey, and cherries, and rosewater, the prince's distinct flavor swirling through it all like an enchantment. Then Joonmyun dips in a second time, rougher now, his tongue stroking against and around Jongin's own, small lips sucking bruises into Jongin's plush ones. There is no more sweetness. Just heat. Everywhere.  
  
"Oh," Jongin breathes into the kiss, stunned and spinning in all directions. He can barely keep track of what is happening, but he feels Joonmyun fist a hand in his hair, while his other hand clamps onto Jongin's hipbone. He's steering them back, back, back, into his chair.  
  
Joonmyun falls into it first, pulling Jongin on top of him. They break away for just a moment—during which they stare at each other, flushed. Then the prince is reaching up, pushing Jongin's hair out of his face, and dragging him down to mesh their mouths together once more.  
  
_I must be under a spell,_  Jongin thinks, gasping as the prince withdraws his tongue from his mouth and attaches his lips to the side of Jongin's neck. _I must be in a dream._  
  
When Joonmyun sucks the sensitive patch of skin right under his jawbone, Jongin bucks in his lap. They both moan softly at the contact. The prince laves his tongue over the same patch of skin, only to suck at it again, more thoroughly this time.  
  
Jongin feels a dangerous warmth pooling in the pit of his belly. Slowly, unconsciously, he begins to rock in place—and then, seized by an immediate spike of pleasure in his body, he fights to still his hips. But Joonmyun hums in disagreement against his neck. The prince snakes his hands behind Jongin, cupping his ass and pressing their bodies even closer against each together.  
  
"Is this what you want?" Joonmyun asks quietly, rocking back. There is a light sheen of sweat coating his regal features.  
  
"Yes," Jongin whispers, giving in. He leans in to ladle a kiss into the prince's mouth—the first one he's initiated. "This, too."  
  
Joonmyun deepens the kiss, and their hips move back and forth between them. Jongin's soft, plain trousers are falling off from the lean forward, the steady rhythm. When the prince slips his hands down back of them, hot and damp, to knead the skin there, Jongin's eyes roll to the back of his head.  
  
"I want you so much," the prince mutters.  
  
"Take me," Jongin whispers, inhibitions falling completely away. "You can have me."  
  
"You've always had me," Joonmyun confesses, and it rips a hole right through Jongin's chest.  
  
With a strength that belies his height—because Jongin  _has_ outgrown him, years ago, when he was still a teenager—the prince hoists Jongin's legs around his waist and stands upright. Jongin wraps his arms around his neck, and they don't stop kissing, recycling the air in the small space between their lips, until they both land on the bed.  
  
Jongin has never been touched before, but Joonmyun leads him patiently. He divests them both of their clothing in a careful, tremulous way, like he's trying to give Jongin a chance to put a stop to things. But Jongin only watches his every move like a besotted pup; steals kisses when Joonmyun draws close to ask if he's ready; caresses down Joonmyun's back when the older man gets on top of him and mouths at his chest; traces Joonmyun's swollen lips like the strings of a harp when the prince finally gets Jongin's knees hooked over his shoulders; keens and pants and  _tries_ when Joonmyun murmurs, "That's it, my love;" cries out Joonmyun's name when their bodies pluck the exact same chord in one heated, maddening moment, and everything goes white around the edges.  
  
In the aftermath, when the sweat has cooled and dried on their skin, and their breathing has faded into the quiet of the early morning, Joonmyun makes his case.  
  
"Stay," he says, slipping his hand into Jongin's. The tips of their noses are touching. "My marriage is only a formality. Nothing will change."  
  
Jongin keeps silent. He can feel the prince's pulse through the point where their palms kiss.  
  
"I'll protect you." Joonmyun's breath is sweet, his voice husky. "I won't let anyone touch you—not the Queen, not Keiko. No one."  
  
A single bird trills, clear and lonely. The sky through the window is a deep, boundless blue, still shimmering with the last stars—the way Jongin imagines the sea will look from Yixing's ship in the evenings.  
  
"Nothing will change," Joonmyun says again. This time, he inches forth, nosing a line across Jongin's cheek. "We will always be together."  
  
Jongin folds in his lips. "Not like this." The pain the past few hours have managed to keep at bay returns with a vengeance, knocking the breath out of him. "This you will do with the princess. And I will only be your servant, waiting for you in the shadows."  
  
A wound, reopened.  
  
The prince answers with a sigh, fathoms and fathoms deep, as if the breath has traveled throughout his entire body. Jongin anticipates his rebuttal, but Joonmyun only lowers his eyes, shaping his mouth over words that won't come.  
  
He knows Jongin is right, and that there is nothing he can do about it. Not while he is the Crown Prince, with duties and obligations.  _Expectations_ of him. Jongin knows it all, too.  
  
So he kisses the prince's throat. "Come with me."  
  
Joonmyun's eyes snap open. "Don't do this," he stammers. "I can—we can still meet—"  
  
"In secret?" Jongin asks, chest caving in on itself like a bed of quicksand. He draws his hand from Joonmyun's grasp so he can press it to the side of his face. "We won't have to hide if you come with me."  
  
He doesn't know what he's expecting. This wasn't part of his plan. But he hopes against hope, the way he did as a child on an auctioneer's platform, that the prince will give him the answer he wants.  
  
The bird outside the window trills again, the sound of its song a little further away.  
  
"I can't, Jongin."  
  
Endless, rolling, frozen silence. That's the sound and sensation of defeat.  
  
Jongin takes his hand away. Lets it drop to his own chest. Cold.  
  
"I understand," he whispers. He tries to smile, show the prince there are no hard feelings—only love—but his mouth can barely move. It is resolve, not free will, that propels him to shift in place, moving away, out of bed.  
  
"Stop!" The prince panics, grabbing his wrist. "Talk to me."  
  
"I'm sorry." Jongin strives, valiantly, to keep his voice steady. "I didn't mean to push. I only wanted to try." And the way he says it gets him crushed back into Joonmyun's chest.  
  
"Don't say it like you've already made up your mind," Joonmyun tells him adamantly. "You haven't, Jongin….not really."  
  
Jongin shakes his head, and the prince clutches him even tighter.  
  
"Do I have to lock you in my room?" Joonmyun says in desperation, his tone frantic and escalating. "Don't give up—don't _give in._ " And then, with a little more power in his voice: "You  _promised_ me, young one."  
  
To hear the endearment now, under these circumstances, in that kind of voice, makes it seem like no more than a bargaining chip. Jongin clenches his jaw, his eyes already wet, and his emotions in a tornado.  
  
He struggles in Joonmyun's hold until the arms around him slacken. The moment they do, Jongin sits up, rubbing at his face.  
  
"Have I hurt you, Jongin?" the prince ventures in a timorous voice.  
  
"Sometimes," Jongin mumbles, and he gets off the bed. "But I won't remember those parts, anyway, my lord."  
  
He turns his back to the prince and starts putting on his clothes. He's already got his trousers on when the bed creaks, and is halfway into his shirt when the prince's feet are adjacent to his on the ground.  
  
Joonmyun's face is twisted. He hasn't bothered to dress. Jongin can see just how rigid the prince is holding himself by the way the muscles in his neck-chest-forearms-forehead quiver in the soft light.  
  
"You are not to leave," the prince commands, distraught. "You are to stay with me, here, in the palace, and live by my side, where I can see you every day, or I won't forgive you."  
  
Jongin knows the threat is empty. The prince is hurting. At this very moment, their insides are mirror images of one another: heavy internal bleeding.  
  
So he drinks in Joonmyun's beautiful face, and he doesn't utter a word of reproach.  
  
"Jongin," the prince begs, adrift in his own rooms. "Please."  
  
Jongin kisses him. It feels like a last—urgent, steadfast, and pure.  
  
"I love you," he tells Joonmyun, brows sloping as they meet each other eye to eye. "That will never change."  
  
The prince's eyelashes are wet. "You are breaking my heart."  
  
Jongin presses their foreheads together. "Mine, too."  
  
And even though he knows in his bones that he will regret this for the rest of his life, and a voice whispers, _better with him as a lowly servant than without him as a free man_ —and physically, it feels like an organ has been torn out from between his ribs—Jongin peels himself away and walks straight out of the room.  
  
The door shuts behind him with a click.  
  
  
  
  
In only a few hours, Jongin's feet are firmly planted on the deck of Yixing's ship. He looks out at the city from the bow. He's had no sleep. In the distance, he can make out the palace, cresting over a hill. There is no sun today; only wind and clouds. Jongin is glad of it. Before everything mellows into the romance of autumn, summer's end brings with it a kind of brilliance that would only mock his misery.  
  
Chanyeol and Nana are below deck. His brother is settling in Yixing's thoroughbred, and Nana is settling into their cabin. There are three beds in it, and one of them belongs to Jongin.  
  
The waves lap at the sides of the ship in a toneless lullaby. Jongin wonders if the prince is still asleep, or if he's stayed awake—and if he did, who brought him his breakfast when he rang for it, or if he rang for a meal, at all.  
  
He looks over at the port, bustling with people on this gray morning. He doubts the prince will come to see him off; Joonmyun doesn't even know the hour they left the palace. Still, Jongin waits.  
  
"You already miss him."  
  
Yixing is smiling at his right, resting on his elbows against the edge of the bow. That's sympathy Jongin makes out in his face and in his voice, not flirtation.  
  
"Yes, my lord."  
  
"Even Chanyeol calls me hyung now," Yixing says mildly. "You can, too. It doesn't mean anything special."  
  
"Yes…hyung." Jongin dips his head; a force of habit. "Thank you for letting us on your ship."  
  
Yixing shrugs, smile waning. "I'm sorry for telling Joonmyun before you could."  
  
They watch the sea fan out into shallow waves, sweeping up the shore, and dragging back like a net. The wind blows Jongin's hair into his eyes. He doesn't bother raking it away.  
  
"You'll get over it, you know."  
  
Yixing's voice sounds just like the water. Calm and hushed, with an undertone of nostalgia.  
  
Jongin's response is lifeless. "Did you?"  
  
That gets him a mournful little chuckle in return. "Touché," Yixing murmurs, lightly squeezing Jongin's shoulder before leaving the younger man to his thoughts.  
  
There aren't many. Just the two that keep playing over and over in Jongin's mind, like a sad old song.  
  
_I wish we'd had more time,_  he thinks, and also,  _I've made a terrible mistake._  
  
In the background, he hears the members of Yixing's crew calling out orders to one another. "Raise the sails!" the voices chorus, bright and cheery. "Weigh the anchor!"  
  
This is it. Jongin scans the port against his better judgement, eyes cataloguing men and horses, women and children. He stands there, searching for a face, until his legs sway beneath him, and he realizes the ship has started to sail.  
  
But the prince does not come.  
  


 

⤫

  
  
When he is very young, and his father is still alive, Jongin receives a piece of advice he never forgets.  
  
It's one of the most brutal winters of his childhood in the emerald mountains. The family in the next cottage has just lost their daughter to the chill. Jongin can hear the lament of her parents—a frightening, ragged wail that cuts through the whirling dervish of the snowfall.  
  
Jongin's mother hugs his brother against her chest. The girl had been Chanyeol's age. She'd seen  _her_ mother weekly at the village market; the woman's face growing wan and thin as her daughter worsened by the day.  
  
Jongin's father stands with him at the window, watching the snow come down in sheets. The wind blusters against the walls, howling like a ghost. But they can still hear the family next door, weeping, and that is infinitely more chilling.  
  
"Are you afraid, Jongin?" his father asks, when the boy curls his fingers into the hem of his sleeve.  
  
"A little," Jongin admits.  
  
His father has such a kind, sage voice. "It's always scary to lose someone you love," he explains. Jongin imagines this is how the oldest, wisest trees in the forest would sound if they could speak. "I don't think there's anything more frightening in this world."  
  
"Will they be all right?" The boy's voice is tiny, just like him.  
  
"I hope so."  
  
His father takes a knee, so he can look into Jongin's face. "I want you to hear this from me," he says, cottony-soft."Someday, far from now, you may lose someone you love. Someone special to you. Someone who cannot be replaced." His bearing is contrite, as though he wishes he could keep this to himself for a while longer. "That's just the way of life, son."  
  
Because Jongin is so young, and so scared, his eyes fill immediately.  
  
"No, no," his father comforts him, wiping away Jongin's tears with the pad of his thumb. "It gets better. Hear me out."  
  
The boy nods, sucking his lip into his mouth.  
  
"When that happens," his father whispers, "I want you to remember something."  
  
He cranes forward, and Jongin does the same, doe eyes rounding in their sockets. It feels like he's about to be told a secret.  
  
"Be strong," his father tells him. "Keep going. Stay kind. And have faith." His palms press an oath into Jongin's shoulders. "Because someday, in this life or the next, you will see them again."  
  


 

⤫

  
  
It's remarkable how quickly time flies. Days bleed into nights, nights diffuse into days, heat freezes into cold, cold melts into heat. In the blink of an eye, Jongin is twenty-three, and a year has passed since he left the prince on that ungodly morning.  
  
Jongin manages not to think about him most days. He and Chanyeol and Nana have made a life for themselves here, in Yixing's land, where there is no royalty.  _Democracy_ is what they call it. Jongin still has trouble understanding how it all works. But he likes it. Because here, people are masters of their own lives.  
  
Yixing has gotten them work at a very large, very fine inn, located by the water—a  _hotel,_  owned by his friend Minseok. Upon Yixing's recommendation, Chanyeol is hired as the new stable master and charged with the management of every horse in the hotel's keeping. Nana is given a position in the women's vanity room—a  _beauty parlor,_ Minseok tells her, so she can repeat the unfamiliar words after him. It's an establishment neither she nor the two brothers have ever heard of before, stocked with every manner of rouge and hairpin and perfume. But her work is exactly what it was for Princess Boa—except for more women, and a monthly wage.  
  
As for Jongin, Yixing initially offers him a spot on the galleon as its quartermaster. The compensation he proposes is handsome, but Jongin declines. After the month-long journey— _ordeal_ —they went through last year, it became clear Jongin wasn't built for life at sea. So Yixing speaks to Minseok, and Jongin gets a job as a hotel butler.  
  
It's strange, how similar their lives are here to the ones they left behind. Only, work stops at sundown every day—and one day out of every week, they are expected not to work at all.  
  
Minseok is a good man. He respects them, recognizes their talent, and pays them fairly. Privately, Jongin thinks he nurses something sweet for Lord Yixing, and that's partly why they all got their jobs. Not that it matters.  
  
The work, to him, is just as much a distraction as it is a livelihood. And he needs both, equally.  
  
Jongin really  _does_ manage not to think of the prince. This schedule is more forgiving, but an avalanche of duties await fulfillment every day, regardless.  
  
Still, when he's standing on the balcony of his room at the hotel, and the light hits the surface of the ocean in a certain way, so it looks gold and blue and smooth as a jewel, he can't help but remember the lake in the palace—the prince wading into it, looking over his shoulder, smiling at a younger version of Jongin, telling him to be happy.  
  
Then his heart throbs until it's sore, and he retreats into his room to find more work to do.  
  
  
  
  
On one such day, when the sun has gone down an hour later than it should have, and Jongin has stared into the water much longer than it was prudent to, Nana pops her head into his room.  
  
"Are you doing anything tomorrow?" she asks, smiling at him like a mother. She knows it's his day off. "If not, I thought you might want to come with me and Chanyeol."  
  
Jongin is crossing tasks off a list. "Where are you going?"  
  
"Lord Yixing's back from his latest voyage," Nana informs him. "He says we get first pick of what's on the ship before they unload it." Under her breath she mutters, "I hope he doesn't charge me an arm and a leg for the dye I asked him to get. He promised me a discount two weeks ago, but he might have been drunk."  
  
Jongin laughs quietly. "I've got errands to do, so I'll pass." He smiles up at her. "But I'll greet hyung now. Where is he?"  
  
"Oh, I haven't actually seen him yet." Nana slips her arms out of her work apron, draping the dark, sturdy material of it over the crook of her elbow. "But your brother has—told me so in a rush. Want me to ask?"  
  
"I'll do it," Jongin replies, standing up. "Go get some rest, noona."  
  
Nana pinches his chin. "He's in the stables by now, with Lord Yixing's horses." As she makes her way down the hall to the room she shares with Chanyeol, Jongin hears her mumble, "Why a sailor needs more than one horse, I'll never know."  
  
Jongin makes his way down to the lobby, exchanging  _hellos_ and  _good evenings_  with fellow staff he meets in the corridors and along the staircases.  
  
"Your merchant friend is in the tavern!" calls a passing bellboy. He ferries Yixing's trunks in a sleek wagon. Pulling his load, he waves Jongin on. "I was to send you there if I ran into you."  
  
The tavern is empty by the time Jongin gets there. It's early in the evening; most of the guests are probably still at dinner. But before he can turn away and carry on to the stables to consult with his brother, the barkeep points Jongin in the direction of a private booth.  
  
"Lord Yixing?" Jongin confirms.  
  
The woman nods and winks, picking up another amber glass to polish.  
  
Each private booth is separated from the rest of the tavern by a pair of velvet curtains. There's a gap in the one Jongin has been directed to. A few steps closer, and he sees Yixing behind the gap, sitting quietly in the booth. Jongin smiles; he's grown immensely fond of this lord. He peels back his lips to call out Yixing's name.  
  
And then he sees it. The movement in Yixing's mouth. The attentiveness in his eyes, directed across the table. He's talking to someone.  
  
Jongin stops in place. It might be Minseok, for all he knows. He doesn't want to interrupt. In any case, he's bound to see Yixing in an hour or so, when his older friend takes his supper in the dining hall. They can catch up then.  
  
_I hope it's Minseok with him,_  Jongin thinks to himself with a wry grin.  _Yixing deserves someone nice._  He turns to leave, just as the curtain rustles aside.  
  
"Jongin!"  
  
And there's Yixing, holding a swathe of red velvet back with one hand. He has the strangest, brightest look on his face.  
  
Jongin can't decipher it. "Hyung," he greets him, anyway, with a little wave and his usual warmth.  
  
When the other curtain pulls back, revealing the identity of Yixing's companion, Jongin's sharp inhale rips through the room like a whip.  
  
It's not Minseok.  
  
Not those almond eyes. Not that rosebud mouth. Not that stricken, elegant face.  
  
_It's Joonmyun._  
  
"Jongin?" the prince shakes out, hand clenched into the thick, soft fabric that separates them.  
  
The younger man cannot speak. He only feels the bones and tendons knotted at his knees, threatening to buckle. He has to clamp a hand on the back of a chair to steady himself.  
  
Yixing is quick to act. He takes Jongin by the arm, solid as ever, and gives him his spot on the bench. The curtains meet again at their center seam, and the candles inside the booth glow yellow in Jongin's pupils.  
  
"Leave them," Yixing instructs someone outside—the barkeep?—and then there is the sound of retreating footsteps. And then there is no sound at all, save for Jongin's heavy breathing.  
  
The prince is sitting across from him in the booth. He has both palms planted on the table. In Jongin's eyes, he looks terrified, and completely at a loss, and not a day older, and so fucking beautiful.  
  
Jongin is buzzing from head to toe. "My lord?"  
  
Those two simple words are like a trigger. "I've abdicated the throne," Joonmyun confesses, all breathy.  
  
Jongin's hand creeps over his mouth.  
  
"It's true," Joonmyun goes on. "I spoke to the King myself. It's done."  
  
"And your successor?" Jongin asks from behind his fingers. "Prince Sehun?"  
  
Joonmyun shakes his head. "My sister," he declares, leaving Jongin shell-shocked. "Boa deserved it from the beginning, anyway. She's the eldest."  
  
Jongin's hand slides away. "And your wife?"  
  
The look the prince sends him is so tender, it renders Jongin spineless. "I was never married."  
  
Air suspends. Time stops. Jongin only hears the beat of a pulse. He's not sure if it's his or Joonmyun's. Perhaps both, in sync.  
  
"What do you—"  
  
"I couldn't do it, Jongin." The prince's expression is so pure, so soft. "Not when you exist."  
  
("Be strong," Jongin's father had told him, once upon a time. "Keep going. Stay kind. And have faith. Because someday, in this life or the next, you will see them again.")  
  
"Where have you  _been?_ " Jongin chokes out, barely believing the odds.  
  
"You'll laugh at me." The prince wets his lips, anxious, and suddenly bashful. "I had to learn a trade, a vocation.  _Something._ Yixing—he's taken me under his wing. Says I could be a good merchant with a few years in the field." He squares his shoulders then, but drops his gaze. "I'm not a prince anymore, Jongin. I couldn't come to you empty-handed."  
  
Jongin tamps down the peal of joyous laughter that blossoms between his lungs. If he sets it free, he's afraid a sob will escape at the exact same instant. "You're a fool, my lord."  
  
The prince's throat bobs. He seeks out Jongin's eyes, looking too small and fearful for Jongin's liking. "Am I too late?"  
  
Already on his feet, Jongin exhales his response: " _Never._ "  
  
And he leans right across the table, curls his hand behind the prince's neck, and fuses their lips together.  
  
It is difficult to describe how he feels at this moment, with Joonmyun's mouth moving beneath his. It's a trance, a fantasy, a hallucination. But the wetness on his cheek, imprinting onto Joonmyun's, is too warm; the salt on his tongue, transferring from Joonmyun's, is too visceral; the swell and pound of his heart, mirroring that of Joonmyun's, is too bittersweet. It's all too detailed, too much,  _all_ of it, for what's happening right now to be a dream.  
  
He is still so in love.  
  
"You're here," Jongin whispers against the prince's lips, fingers digging into the skin at his nape. "You're really, really here."  
  
"I am," Joonmyun whispers back. Jongin pecks his lips. "And I'm staying with you—here, or wherever you go. As long as you don't leave me behind again, it doesn't matter."  
  
Jongin nods, too full for words. Then he's climbing over the table in a fluid movement, and burying his face into the crook of Joonmyun's neck once they are side by side.  
  
"I'm sorry," Joonmyun says, hooking an arm around Jongin's waist to lock him there. "I should have come to see you off that day." He kisses Jongin's eyelids, the spot between his brows, the temple that isn't pressed to his shoulder.  
  
"It doesn't matter." Jongin cannot stem the flow of his emotions. He feels so cherished, so warm, so impossibly happy. So he drapes his legs over the prince's lap and expresses the most important thing. "You came back to me."  
  
"Because I love you," Joonmyun says simply, his words like iron. An unbreakable promise. "Because I love you."  
  
  
  
  
The night is long and deep. It pulls Jongin in like the undertow in the treacherous sea he's always imagined. He is rendered powerless, a willing captor, as Joonmyun takes him again and again in his own bed.  
  
Later, when their skin glistens with the traces of a frantic, poignant reunion, Joonmyun turns them over. He seems so vulnerable underneath Jongin's body—just a man, not a prince—and he asks Jongin to take him, too.  
  
"Are you certain?" Jongin asks, stroking a hand up his thigh. He's discovered, in the last few hours, that it calms them both.  
  
"I am," Joonmyun tells him, like he trusts Jongin with his entire life. He noses at the dip in Jongin's throat. "I want to do everything with you."  
  
There are no secrets between them in the morning.  
  
The light filters in through Jongin's white sheets, pulled over his and Joonmyun's heads. Underneath, he and the prince— _former_  prince—are curled towards each other. Still nude. Freshly roused.  
  
There are birds chirping in the trees, and the sun is warm on the side of Jongin's body that it touches.  
  
It's summer again.  
  
"Hello," he whispers to the man in his bed. Bliss is a creeping vine, winding ticklish and evergreen over Jongin's heart.  
  
Joonmyun blinks back at him, feather-lashed, his skin like champagne. "Hello, my love."  
  
That is exactly how, and exactly when, Jongin starts afresh.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I imagined Watanabe Keiko to have the face of Irene from Red Velvet, but that's where the similarities end. I just didn't think Irene's English or Korean names were suited to the plot.
> 
> 2\. I consider FKA twigs' ["Papi Pacify"](https://open.spotify.com/track/5JpNSjRIGjXmeiE45CBc6g) the official soundtrack to this story. I wrote the entire thing listening to it.


End file.
